Breathing
by moragh33
Summary: Oneshot; 'But sometimes I can't breathe. Sometimes when she's not in my line of sight, or if I can't feel her beside me, all I can think about is the fact that she willingly gave her life to save us.'


I sometimes wish that Artie had never told us what happened. Don't get me wrong, most of the time I'm glad: I'm glad that everyone else knows what she did, that everyone else's last doubts could be washed away, that she could be given her freedom. And, you know, I can now be sure that, even when she gets into really bad fights with Artie, he still trusts her underneath; he's not going to try and get rid of her again. Her position here isn't questioned anymore.

But sometimes I can't breathe. Sometimes when she's not in my line of sight, or if I can't feel her beside me, all I can think about is the fact that she willingly gave her life to save us. From what Artie said, she must have made that decision in a matter of seconds. It took her seconds to decide to give away her life for the Warehouse…for me. I remember again the quickness with which she decided that we must destroy the Janus Coin; again she must have had only seconds to understand the situation before she declared her decision. And then I realise that in the madness of this job, this institution, she could be out there somewhere, experiencing seconds where she has to make that choice again and I wouldn't know it; I wouldn't be there to stop her and tell her that nothing in the world is worth the price of her life. And that's when I can't breathe.

I wonder if I should talk to her about it, if telling her that this is what she does to me would make her less likely to give herself over to death and therefore less likely to stop me from breathing. Probably not. I know she loves me, but she loves me like I love her: nothing is more important to me than that she lives.

It's a bit of a conundrum I guess; in those moments where I can't breathe, I almost wish that she didn't love me, that she wasn't the person that she was. But the thought of her not loving me or of her not being her… it makes me feel ill; hot and cold and feverish with despair.

So in those moments that I can't breathe I just have to deal with it. I swallow hard. I tell myself that she's safe, that she's good at her job, that she's got the skills and the quick thinking to save herself and those around her in pretty much any situation. She wouldn't want me to worry, just as I don't want her to worry about me. She's fine. She'll be home soon….

And then I have to force myself to take several deep, long breaths.

But right now, in this moment, I breathe easily. One thing you can bet I didn't imagine of the great H.G. Wells when I read those magnificent stories as a child is that she's a massive snuggler. Early morning light is glancing off her hair, glossy and shiny even though it's been mussed by last night's activity, and she's mumbling vaguely in her sleep as she nuzzles into my collarbone. Her left leg is thrown up across my hips and her left hand is buried in my hair, her hand occasionally flexing as the dream moves her. She pulls me closer, her whole body curling around me as she groans and purrs, edging closer to waking. And then she starts to move more purposefully.

A kiss is pressed to the hollow of my throat and then I feel her smiling against my skin as she drifts upwards leaving a trail of kisses as she goes. And then her right arm is pushing her upwards, giving her the leverage she needs, lifting her so she can reach all the way to my ear where her hot breath makes me squirm as she murmurs, "Good morning, darling," in a rough morning voice before nipping delicately at the sensitive skin there.

I smile to myself; the irony of enjoying this moment where she makes my breath hitch is not lost on me.

"Hey," I reply, aware that my smile is gigantic as she finally lifts herself up to meet my eye. I push forwards, claiming her as mine with a kiss which she sinks down into. I've never kissed anyone the way I kiss her. It's not just a thing you do, it's a thing you need, a compulsion. I wonder if it's because we held ourselves apart and were kept apart for so long; once the dam broke… well, all restraint is gone. And who'd want it back? Not me, for sure, and Helena's not exactly the type to get het up about expressing herself.

I feel the strength of her body, her muscles moving under my hands as they travel across her skin. She's so pale, but so vibrant; a miracle in more than one sense. The sound of her, the press of her body on top of mine, the smell and taste of her; they are what I need. They tell me that she is here, alive and well and happy. They tell me that it's ok to breathe. And so I do.

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**A/N:** Hope you enjoyed it! You know you want to leave me a review, right? You totally do...


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